


At Ease

by Baneberry



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:46:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baneberry/pseuds/Baneberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot of strain put on you when you're a leader. It's always good to unwind--while still taking command.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Ease

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme request: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12912896#t12912896
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://captainbaneberry.tumblr.com/post/85292762653/at-ease-3313-words-by-baneberry-ao3): because a reblog is always appreciated! （●>ω・）ﾉ

More often than not, Krok considered himself a relatively lenient commander.

As leader, you had to be fair but just, firm but open. He had to set an example, and keep his team in working condition. It wasn't an easy job, but Krok managed well, and he liked to think his crewmates would come to him for advice or any criticism they had on regards to how the ship was run.

With a motley crew like the Scavengers, Krok was constantly testing his leadership skills and trying to keep his little rag-tag group together. They were a... unique bunch of folk--but despite their flaws, they were still Krok's teammates and he would take care of them. Even if sometimes that meant wanting so badly to jettison them out an airlock and wash his hands clean of them for good.

Fortunately, Krok kept his cool. Remained restrained and composed. Had to for some of his more hysterical, trigger-happy, paranoid, cranky crewmates. This wasn't much of a hard task--being wound tight came naturally with the position. Though Krok believed he wasn't strict or disconnected enough to scare off his comrades.

But there were times where the role weighed a little heavy on Krok's shoulders. Sometimes he just felt like temporarily hanging up the mantle and diving into a nice state of ennui for a few hours. Alas, he could not afford such vacations--his job was too demanding.

Still, Krok could not deny these moments of distractions. He rarely ever acted upon them. Rarely ever took off personal time to hide in his room and take a day-long nap. However, he was still very much a sapient, sentient, living creature with needs and desires. His position couldn't rob him of that--not for too long.

Eventually the thin string keeping him tightly wound would snap.

But, _God--why_ did it have to be sexual in nature?

Krok couldn't deny the attractive features of some of his teammates. Mostly just one in particular--bigger, stronger, but not very intellectually challenging or engaging. Which was usually something Krok would prefer in a partner. However, in the end, it didn't really matter; it actually helped, surprisingly enough, because the last thing Krok wanted to do was _think_ while interfacing. A strategist's mind ran constantly, even during recharge, and it'd be nice if he could find the perfect distraction to shut it up for a while.

And, well, it was now or never.

... Well, okay, no, it wasn't, but whatever.

The doors to the bridge hissed open, and Krok stepped forward, remaining in the doorway. He stood completely rigid, hands behind his back, a firm glower on his face--such an astute, professional looking captain. Misfire and Spinister were at the helm; they were laughing about something, but by the way Spinister guffawed, Krok knew he actually had no idea what the Hell Misfire was saying.

Time to strike. You can do this, Krok. You've driven fifty mega-miles in a field of space landmines without so much as a scratch. You led your team in various battles with no causalities. ... Most of the time. You can do this; you can _ask someone out_.

"Spinister."

Misfire jumped in his chair, quickly swinging his legs off the control panel. Both he and Spinister looked back at their commander.

"Yeah?" Spinister replied.

"I need to speak with you," Krok said, paused, "in private."

Misfire grinned. "Aw, c'mon. You can share with--"

"My suite, three kliks."

Misfire winced as Krok suddenly turned and left. He looked to Spinister, staring at the closed doors. "What's with him? _Eesh_ ," he grumbled and sat back, legs once more on the control panel. "Sounded like a scraplet crawled up his a--"

The magenta Decepticon squeaked when a big hand suddenly slapped him upside the head. It nearly knocked Misfire out of his seat. His wide optics flew up to Spinister, who had gathered to his feet. "Bite yer tongue," he growled, and then he was gone, following after the ship's captain.

Misfire was left confused, still rubbing his head.

\---

Spinister didn't know what was going on--but he was excited to find out.

It wasn't often Krok used his strict authoritative tone on his crewmates. More calm, less demanding, sympathetic. Spinister... kind of liked it. When he got a little rough and stubborn. Though this less-than-friendly attitude might suggest Krok was in a bit of a bad mood. Spinister hoped that wasn't the case, though; it felt kind of wrong to get off on someone's anger.

Just a little.

Nonetheless, he arrived at Krok's door a minute later. He didn't even have to ping to let Krok know he was here--the door slid open, and Spinister, waving off the last bit of apprehension (for... some reason), stepped into the room.

"Two kliks to spare."

The doors nearly snapped shut on his ass. Spinister looked up; Krok stood across the room, staring out the tiny window with an intense glare.

"You wanted t'see me?" Spinister asked.

Krok drew in a deep breath (possible, actually) before slowly turning; did not look at Spinister as he crossed the room with such a regal stride. Fitting for a man of his position. Spinister watched him curiously, staying quiet.

"Words were never your specialty, and thus, I will speak in a language you much rather prefer," Krok said. He stopped beside his slab; finally, turned to face Spinister. Oh, and the ways his optics _burned_ , the medic felt a shiver run down his backstrut. "I want to interface," Krok stated, bluntly.

To anyone else, this may have come as a shock and would require some further explanation, but Spinister just took a moment to widen his optics before-- "Okay," he replied, simply. All surprise completely gone. Krok might as well have just asked him to look at an owie on his hand or something.

Krok nodded once. "On the berth," he ordered, giving the side of his slab a little kick. "I have a way I want to do this. You're going to see it is done to the letter."

Spinister nodded. He suddenly felt very excited. "Right," he said. "Right." He crossed the room, gave Krok and his stern expression one last look, before climbing onto the slab.

"On your back," Krok ordered, firmly.

No problem. Done. He looked up to Krok like an eager puppy, waiting for further orders.

Krok took a moment. "Protract your cord," he said.

Spinister was quick to oblige, as always. Pelvic plating clicked, opened, and Krok couldn't help but choke on a small, shocked noise at the... size. It was--wow, okay, he hadn't expected it to be _that_ big, but--well, hey; _there_ it was. Stifling that noise very quickly at the confused look he received from Spinister, the surprise wore off, immediately replaced with sudden exhilaration.

This was probably going to hurt.

This was probably going to be even better than Krok originally hoped for.

Krok strolled alongside the berth, a couple paces, stopped again. He reached over, inquisitively wrapping his fingers around the cord. Spinister shuddered beneath him; he gave it one soft pump, thumb smoothing over the slit. "You think this is going to be enough?" Krok demanded. "Because I," his finger stabbed into the head and Spinister cursed, "am a little doubtful."

Little, _heh_.

"I'll do my best," Spinister insisted, "my best is always the best."

Krok arched an optic ridge. "You don't say," he hummed. Spinister nodded enthusiastically. "I suppose we'll have to test that... _big_ self-confidence of yours." He stepped back, releasing Spinister's cord; truth be told, this domineering, calm facade was starting to shake. It took a lot of self-control not to just jump Spinister and go to town like this was their honeymoon. Yee-fucking- _haw_.

Krok, however, kept up the act. He invented, and felt his own pelvic plating shift and open, exposing both port and his own erect cord. As he moved back up to the slab, he pointed over Spinister's head. "Hands up," he ordered.

Spinister blinked, but slowly raised his hands above his head.

"Keep them there."

"But--"

" _Keep_ ," Krok hissed, shrilly, and Spinister visibly sunk back, "them there. Understand?"

Spinister swallowed. He wasn't scared, just really, really impatient. "Y-Yeah. Got it."

Krok said nothing more. He braced his hands to the slab, crawling up; threw one leg over Spinister. Planted both knees at his sides. Spinister looked up at him with those eager, glowing red optics.

"You'll do exactly what I tell you to do," Krok said, firmly, "understood?"

"Yeah, yeah." Oh, God, he could already feel the heat Krok was emanating.

This... was going to hurt. Thin rivets of lubricant cut down Krok's thighs with complete anticipation. He adjusted himself as best as possible, but...

Well, here goes everything.

Pressing his hands to Spinister's chest, he slowly lowered himself; tip and then--Spinister's hands flew up to grab Krok, but the Scavenger leader snarled, hoarsely, "Hands up!"

Spinister slowly forced his hands back above his head. Krok hissed, optics blazing, narrowed; his entire body shook save his stiff arms as he forced himself to take the massive cord. It was no easy feat, and he could only take so much. The slick lining of his port burned, and something had definitely been torn, but... Despite all this, the pain was equally wonderful.

Spinister seemed to be adjusting a little easier. The tight, clenching sensation wasn't exactly new to him. Nonetheless, he grunted, one optic squeezing shut. He did not complain, however, did not argue.

Krok invented shakily, chest quivering as it rose and fell. Spinister watched, concerned, as Krok slowly lifted himself up again. Not completely; taking a moment to prepare, he pushed back down. Slow and agonizing and wonderful and perfect. His knees buckled, and his fingers dug into the larger 'Con's chest, but--

"A... pologize."

Spinister tilted his head.

"Apologize," Krok repeated, optics flickering. He rose; forced himself back down. The pain was subsiding, the heat turning something numb. "You hurt me." He glanced down, between his legs, at the fluids pooling between their coupled bodies. Some of that was energon. "A--Apologize."

Spinister swallowed. "... S-Sorry?"

Krok did not respond. He continued focusing on adjusting himself. This would all be worth it, he knew. Spinister didn't question his silence, but Krok knew he was anxious. Knew he wanted to do something, say something. Krok smirked, and, with one final test, drew up completely and--

Spinister growled, fingers clenching and denting the edge of the berth. Krok groaned as he slammed down, taking that ridiculously huge cord in to the very hilt. A part of Krok's mind that wasn't consumed and suffocated in clouds of lust told him he shouldn't have done that, but-- Well, too late for that.

Krok heaved, optics squeezing shut; his body spasmed around the cord completely inside of him. Spinister was grunting, his chassis tense. "Does it h-hurt?" Krok asked, in a breathy voice. "I'd like to t-think you're more... resilient t-than this."

Spinister's optics flew open. "I am!" he huffed, indignantly.

Krok chuckled. "I thought so." He drew himself up, half-way along the cord, and noted that the pain had returned. Just a little; not enough to stop him. "Now," he croaked, "the formalities are over."

With all those "little" technicalities out of the way, Krok pushed back down, once more taking the entire cord. Spinister grunted; he watched as Krok picked up the pace, moving a second faster with each thrust. Soon, he was building a rhythm, and Spinister was starting to fall apart.

"How does it feel?" Krok asked. His hips snapped. "Tell me, how does it feel?"

Spinister groaned. "G-Great, it--"

"How so?" Krok interjected, slamming down. Spinister growled, bucking up; he ground himself inside the port, earning a small moan from his partner. Nonetheless, Krok insisted, "T-Tell me. How g-great."

"H-Hot, hot--really hothot," Spinister stammered, "t-tight but--per-per--"

Krok rolled his hips, clenching around the cord, and Spinister gasped. "Perfect?" Krok finished for him.

"Perfectperfect _nnhh_."

"You're not so bad yourself," Krok said. Rose halfway, slid back down, keeping the pace random--nothing too slow, nothing too fast. "But I'm s-still not convinced. Y-You live up t-to all the... e-expectations..."

Spinister scowled. "My b-best is the--the best."

"I'm still w-waiting to s-see that."

Truth was, this was pretty much the best. The pain was long gone now, or at least replaced with something akin to masochistic pleasure. Krok continued riding into that cord; harder and harder, adoring all those wonderful noises from his squirming partner beneath him. Though one particularly hard thrust-- Krok removed himself completely, only to slide down with such torturous speed--had Spinister instinctively reaching to grab for the smaller 'Con's hips, to--

" _What_ ," and Krok's hand was so painfully tight, holding the exposed half of his cord in a vice grip, "did I say about y-your hands?"

Spinister might have whimpered, or grunted. Hard to tell. Krok suddenly took him by his chin, forced him to look him in the eye. He slowly leaned forward, gliding along his cord, and Spinister was about to crush the slab in his fingers.

"Am I going to have to tie those up?" Krok threatened.

Spinister groaned. "N-No. Nono."

Krok studied the Decepticon's face before letting his chin go; gently, almost in a patronizing manner, pat-pat Spinister's cheek. "Good boy," he crooned and sat back. He released the cord, only to slide back down to the hilt; Spinister moaned, feeling metal give way beneath his fingers.

Krok stretched back, in such a languid, fluid manner for a mechanical being; placed his hands to the berth, one on Spinister's leg. As he picked up the speed again, he felt the heat rush up his backstrut, tingle every sensor. His fans cycled humid air, pushing coolant through his circuitry. It was getting harder, now, so hard not to just... give in. Just to let the noises flow and accept "defeat." Let Spinister take control, if he wanted; to let himself fall like a ragdoll in the medic's hands and allow him to use him how he pleased because, God, this was wonderful, so wonderful, and the way the cord ground against the sensitive lining of his port, all those nodes, each brush drawing him closer and closer to the edge--

No. No, not yet.

Krok sat forward again; cursed. He eyed the way Spinister's hands tore into the berth, so damn needy. "You've been a good bot," he said, knees pressing against the outsides of Spinister's hips. The larger Decepticon looked up at him, anxious, desperate. Krok nodded weakly to the side. "B-Bend me over my d-desk. Frag m-me until I... I overload. Do you... understand?"

Spinister gasped, "Yes, yes!"

Krok smirked. He then nodded to Spinister's hands. That was all the medic needed. A second later, Spinister was sitting up, balancing Krok in his lap. He pulled the smaller Decepticon into his arms, fingers digging into his back, finding all those seams and probing. Krok groaned as Spinister pumped into him, harder, faster than before, and Krok felt his body go li--

"The desk!" Krok snapped, grabbing and yanking on one antenna.

Spinister chuffed. Right, right, the desk. He reluctantly pulled himself free; stumbled to his feet, holding Krok in his arms. Clumsily scampered over to the desk across the room. Krok grunted as he was suddenly dumped half over the desk; as he pushed himself up, large hands took his hips, squeezed, and there was no stopping the loud cry as Spinister thrust back into him without warning.

Krok groaned, burying his face against the desk. He could barely stand, needing to rely on the hands holding him up. His chest rocked against the desk, grinding into it, peeling back thin strands of paint. His fingers tore into the surface, fumbling; he vaguely realized he had knocked something over, but didn't care. Krok's entire body ached, but it was a wonderful, beautiful ache.

"H-Hand," Krok whimpered, and the desk actually moved a few good inches, "use y-your... hand." He reached back, pawing at one of Spinister's hands. The medic allowed him to grab it, move it down between his legs. Fortunately, the big lug caught on fast-- he took Krok's cord in his hand, squeezed once, then started pumping. Matching the rhythm of his thrusting.

Krok keened, only to cut it short. He felt himself climb a little higher along the desk, and Spinister's free hand slipped around his thigh, lifting his leg, angling it so now _every - single - node_ felt these wonderfully hard thrusts. Krok buried his face into the crook of his elbow, growling and hissing; he snapped his head back, barked, "Harder! _Harder_!"

And Spinister was just happy to please. The speed of his thrusts continued, but his hand around Krok's cord worked even faster. Tugged and pulled and damn near yanked, and Krok yelped, optics bulging from their sockets.

Sudden weight was on Krok's back as Spinister stretched over him. He tucked his chin into his shoulder; almost soft and sweet until suddenly he shoved into Krok so hard, the desk nearly flipped over.

"I-Is this... Am I...?" Spinister grumbled into his audiol.

"Y-Yes," Krok moaned, "p- _perfect_."

It was Krok who overloaded first--he keened as climax surged violently through his frame. Transfluid spilled over Spinister's hand, puddling on the floor. Krok's entire chassis continued shaking, racked with aftershocks at an overload that was...

Well, _perfect_.

However...

"Stop."

Spinister kept--

"Stop."

Second time, and Spinister regretfully came to a stop. He growled; far past the use of words.

Krok swallowed dryly. He pushed back against Spinister, forcing the Decepticon to stand. Krok winced as he stood, leaning against the larger mech for balance. Could still feel that thick cord in his port, hand loose around his own.

"B-Berth," Krok said, hoarsely, nodding to his slab.

Spinister helped his commander up, moving him to the berth.

"Sit."

Spinister, of course, obeyed, even though it was becoming obvious he was starting to lose patience.

Krok hissed before bending forward, pressing hands and knees to the berth. Spinister curled over top of him, filled with rejuvenated excitement.

Krok took a moment. Breathed. In a haggard voice, ordered, "Continue."

It didn't surprise Krok that Spinister's stamina would last so long. Not that he complained. It still felt great, being filled, being fucked like this, and if he weren't so damn tired, he'd want this to continue for another round.

When Spinister finally overloaded, his entire body stiffened; his massive arms wrapped around Krok, yanking him up into a sit on his lap. Krok gasped, optics widening; he could fill the hot transfluid fill his tanks to the brim. It hurt a little, stretching, and he wiggled down into that cord with a small grunt. But soon it was over, and Spinister had gone slack again. Still held Krok, just a little less tightly, slouching against the smaller Decepticon as he breathed heavily.

Soon, the transfluid trapped inside him started to ache. "Release me," Krok ordered, voice so small. It took Spinister a moment, but then he helped Krok off of him; Krok grunted as he laid back, transfluid spilling free.

Spinister waited a minute or two, giving his commander a moment to adjust and re-calibrate; quietly, he slipped forward, pressing himself against Krok's side. He grunted, nuzzling his maskplate against Krok's head.

Krok invented. He reached up, dragging fingers down Spinister's head. Good boy, you did a good job.

Spinister hummed contentedly.

"Y-You've made... a mess."

Spinister powered-up his optics. Looked down at Krok, then the transfluid smeared along the berth.

Krok turned his head, squinting. "Clean it up."

Spinister blinked. Then, with a low chortle, he lifted himself on hands and knees, and sunk down.

Krok cooed, laying his head back. Switched off his optics.

Sometimes, it was good to just let go.


End file.
